


Ungodly Hour

by Mallaeus



Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [6]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Day At The Beach, Demisexuality, Driving, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Touching, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallaeus/pseuds/Mallaeus
Summary: Ororo doesn't date. Frightened of intimacy, averse to vulnerability, she rides alone, surrounded by her friends, happily coupled and in love.Hank is a private man, keeping to himself, his desires as much a mystery as his love life.Until one day, the X-Men take a much-needed trip to the beach, and Hank's fingers find their way beneath Ororo's t-shirt, leading to a night together that will reshape their relationship, permanently.Another entry in my X-Men series, although as usual there's no need to read any of the previous installments.I'm bad at summaries; it's a Hurt/Comfort fluff-fest featuring two people with a lot of baggage. You'll like it, I promise.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Hank McCoy/Ororo Munroe, Jean Grey/Scott Summers, John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake, Kurt Wagner/Warren Worthington III
Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614586
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh oh, back again
> 
> This has been floating around in my head for a while, and so here it is.  
> Enioy my first ever foray into heterosexuality.

A day at the beach. 

A cloudless sky — no powers necessary.

Ororo lounged across a bright pink towel, terry-cloth rough beneath her, its colour sharp, almost neon, against her skin. There was a thin sheen of sweat across her collarbone, her thighs, the tight expanse of her stomach. It shimmered whenever she shifted, light playing across her body like the sun across the sea, just a few metres away. The water looked good, almost inviting, but she abstained. Something about the sensation of being underwater — even partially — left her feeling claustrophobic, the weight of the sea pressed to her body in all directions. So she kept to the sand, keeping her mind in the clouds, halting their descent over their private stretch of beach. 

Her hair was braided — safe from the salt in the air, from the invisible pollution she could sense in the atmosphere, eddying in the air currents high above them. Her bathing suit was approaching scandalous — not that it mattered when the majority of the men in her presence were in relationships already, most of them with one another. Jean had complimented her on it, at least, which meant that someone appreciated her effort. Jean was next to her in a white plastic lawn chair — skin so pale it was almost translucent — beneath the shade of an umbrella lodged in the sand — a peppermint swirl interrupting the golden stretch of the beach. John laid to her right, working steadily through some recently-translated novel he had been looking forward to, periodically turning himself over.

“I’m trying to get an even tan,” he had explained lazily, cigarette flapping out of the corner of his mouth, when Ororo had asked. He hadn’t struck her as the sort of person who cared about getting a tan, but then again, he hadn’t struck her as someone who would willingly foster a house full of children and adolescents in the wake of an extrajudicial raid on a nonviolent household either.

She was still bitter about the Accords, and all that they had entailed. Still boiling quietly inside.

Jean’s voice pulled her from her anger, as it always did, drifting languid across to her.

“Who do you think is winning?” she asked, eyes on the boys where they were playing…  _ something _ . It involved a ball, although there was no net, no goal that was visible. There seemed to be no restriction on what body parts could be used to touch the ball — it had been variously slapped, kicked, punched and headbutted at any given moment. The object of the game seemed to be to cause one another the most amount of bodily harm without incurring a serious injury. Whomever held the ball currently was the target, the others loping after him, tackling, sweeping legs out from under, raising him into the air and tossing him once more on to the sand. She saw Jean wince at one point, as Scott ran headlong into Piotr’s waiting shoulder — his eyes on Bobby behind him, hands outstretched. Piotr heaved up as Scott made contact, sending him into the air and flat on his back on the sand. There was a moment where everything stopped, Jean swallowing once. The moment passed, however, and Scott picked himself up, dusting sand off of his visor, and the game resumed. Ororo felt Jean relax subtly beside her, a minute release of tension in her muscles.

"I don't understand them."

"Men are like that."

"So I hear," Ororo replied, a slight smirk pulling up the sides of her mouth. She watched their bodies move for a few moments more, taking in the sight of flesh and muscle and just-browning skin twisting and meeting over the kicked-up clouds of sand and shingle. Her eyes skimmed over the vast plates of Piotr's shoulder muscles, the gut-stab of lust gone as quickly as it had arrived. 

Kyle was several metres out to sea with Hank, the two of them snorkelling, of all things. According to Kyle — or rather, according to the assuredly reputable television shows he watched, about treasures buried or otherwise lost across the country — the waters of this particular beach, somewhere on the Gulf Coast, were chock full of old pirate treasure, prime for the taking. Hank had been intrigued, at least enough to humour him. They had been gone for some time, and she wondered quietly if they were okay, or if they had been pulled under by a riptide, or had gotten lost in some dark, underwater cave. 

"They're fine. They found a big metal buoy a while ago and got distracted doing flips off of it into the water."

Ororo turned to Jean, head tilted. She shrugged.

"Just because I don't listen to people's thoughts doesn't mean I can stop hearing them altogether. Stop thinking so loud if it bothers you so much," she replied, a grin on her face and a wink behind her sunglasses.

Ororo couldn't argue with that. She had heard enough private conversations through the thin walls of the mansion to understand Jean's predicament.

"Where are Kurt and Warren?" Ororo asked, suddenly aware of their absence — specifically the lack of Warren's obnoxious voice. John replied, voice spiralling upwards alongside the smoke from his cigarette.

"They're at home, having sex."

"How do you know they're having sex?"

John pushed the rim of his sunglasses down his nose, locking eyes with Ororo, expression derisive.

"What else would they be doing? Besides," he added, "I called earlier to get Warren to put my and Bobby's clothes into the dryer, and when he answered he was out of breath."

Ororo and Jean both turned to each other, nodding once. Warren very rarely did anything that involved exerting himself, unless Kurt was also involved. Ororo sighed, flopping flat onto her back once more, her elbows sore from supporting herself.

"At least someone is getting some action around here."

As if on cue, Bobby returned, stomping heavily through the thick sand, kicking it onto the edge of Ororo's towel, and her feet. More than sitting, he practically fell, laying himself next to John, his back already coated with a fine powdering of sand. He leaned on his arm, inserting himself between John and his book. Ororo watched them interact out of the corner of her eye. 

Bobby's smile was famous among their group, and had been for years, long before John had arrived. Only Warren's had ever come close in terms of its raw manipulative power, but his capabilities were halted by his insincere nature. Bobby's was natural, perfectly curved at the corners, dimpled, with a shock of white teeth. It always reached his eyes, which were wide and shining, almost mischievous. Bobby had been the X-Men's diplomat for years, casually smoothing over troublesome interactions with a simple twist of the mouth and a turning-down of his eyebrows. And so, Ororo watched the wave of his charisma batter the shore of John's carefully constructed nonchalance.

"You wanna go for a swim?" he asked, teasing his index finger along the ridge of John's cheek, sweeping it across his lips, down the corner of his chin, into the hollow of his throat and back again. 

"I don't swim," he replied, briskly.

" _ C'mon _ ," he said, dragging the word out into a whine, "you can hold onto my back, it'll be fun." At the final word, Bobby brought his eyebrows down ever so slightly at the tips, his perfect impression of a hurt puppy. John sighed, a cloud of smoke unfurling towards the sky, and met his eyes.

"Lemme finish my smoke, and this chapter," he replied, voice held carefully neutral. Ororo wondered how he did it, how he could compel his face to remain still against the onslaught of Bobby's smile. Bobby relented, flopping onto his stomach, his and John's shoulders touching. He feigned interest in the book, reading alongside him, his eyes unfocused. He ran his foot along the back of John's leg, feigning innocence whenever he would break his concentration to stare Bobby out. Eventually, with his cigarette finished, flamed into ash in his palm, he got up, sitting up on his knees before standing with a groan. Bobby grinned wider, if such a thing were possible, and rose with him, brushing sand from his thighs. He pulled his shorts off, revealing a swimsuit which John visibly rolled his eyes at — a bright coloured swim brief that left very little of his body actually covered. Jean raised her eyebrows, Ororo chuckling to herself as they made their way into the water, John's legs around Bobby's waist, his arms around his neck. They floated together, John almost clinging to him, Bobby giggling wildly as he panicked whenever a wave passed over and around them. Ororo looked away when their lips met, feeling too much like a voyeur for her own liking. 

"Bobby's been doing a lot better since John got back," Ororo observed. Jean nodded silently, letting the memory of the previous year hang between them. 

Bobby had been inconsolable, despondent at the loss of John. What brief interactions they had had — those fleeting moments where John would call from a new number, Bobby's rushing to answer his phone, his pinched face as he listened to whatever update John had for him — seemed to keep Bobby going. And then it would be over, and Bobby would stand with the phone to his ear, as if replaying the sound of his voice over again. Someone would come to him, eventually, to pull him away from wherever he stood. On more than one occasion it had been Hank, one broad palm on the back of Bobby's neck, guiding him to bed. Hank had actually spent the night with him once, which had surprised Ororo. She had walked by Bobby's door that evening, seeing him curled up at Hank's side, his body seemingly shrunk by his grief. Hank had met her eyes sadly as she passed, his face tight.

John's return had been a surprise to them all, as he turned up unannounced at the mansion, his kids in tow. It had been the middle of the night — some weeks following the dissolution of the Accords and the release of the X-Men and Avengers who had found themselves imprisoned in the interim. He had waved off their questions, their welcomes with a tired hand.

"It's been a long day, the kids need sleep. We'll talk tomorrow," he had said, shepherding his charges off to their dorms once again.

Xavier had cornered him, however, pulling him aside into his office to speak. Ororo hadn't been privy to it, but according to John, he had simply thanked him. She had found it hard to believe that anything about their interaction could have been simple, but she didn't pursue it. Satisfied that everyone was going to leave him be, he had crept to his room, where Bobby had laid, undisturbed by the hum of the mansion that night. He had explained to her how he had moved silently — a new skill developed in his time away — slipping into the wide circle of Bobby's arms, settling himself against him. Ororo had awoken the next morning to Bobby's incredulous shout, his barely-stifled cries, the whole house rocked by his joy. It still made her tear up a little, when she thought about it.

Hank and Kyle returned shortly after, dripping onto the sand, darkening it beneath their feet, only for the heat of the sun to restore it just as quickly. Kyle laid himself out by Piotr, tucked within the shadow of his giant's frame. Piotr turned to embrace him, foreheads pressed together as Kyle recounted his and Hank's time in the water, his voice low, fingers dragging across the plane of Piotr's chest, shedding water from his curls onto the towel beneath them. Scott sat at Jean's feet, his fingers tracing the bones of her ankle, running along her veins, mapping out her delicacy beneath his rough skin. Every so often he would kiss her, lips warm against the skin of her calf, her knee, and she would chuckle in response, her fingers wound into his hair, another step in their endless dance. 

Ororo felt decidedly left out, all things considered. Truly, she was alone by her own design, her desire to be her own woman, to not subordinate herself to the whims of her emotions. Yet, it would be nice to be held, it had to be said. Sometimes it seemed to her that her stubborn rejection of romance emerged not out of her noble desire to exist independently, but rather was a symptom of what she and Jean had unearthed as an aversion to vulnerability which verged on the unhealthy. 

She was working on it, but it was taking time.

She was drawn out of herself by the looming of a shadow into her presence, Hank standing by her, gesturing at what had been John's towel.

"Would you mind if I laid down here, Ororo?" he asked, ever polite. She made to explain that it was John's spot, and then her eyes drifted once more to he and Bobby, floating gently in the waves, heads close, eyes on one another and nothing else. She gestured for him to sit, and he nodded, folding in on himself and onto the towel. She observed him silently, the curve of his calves as he toweled sand and seawater from his skin, the muscles in his back twisting around one another as his hands worked. His hair — which covered almost every inch of his body — was matted to him by the water, leaving whirling spirals across his chest and legs and up his arms where he hadn't yet reached with the towel. 

Ororo didn't really conceive of Hank in a sexual context, for what it was worth. He was attractive, yes, but he was a friend first, a brother. It was, in many ways however, impossible to ignore his presence beside her, the vast swell of his body.

He settled beside her on the towel, drying himself in the sun. Ororo glanced at him on occasion, once his breathing had slowed, observing the flakes of salt as they began to appear, sparkling crystalline among his dark hair. 

* * *

Their relationship for the most part had been friendly. They weren't close by any means, but she enjoyed his company, whenever he chose to share it with her. Hank was a private person, and spent most of his free time in his lab, or in his room. She had probed him once — the two of them driving into the city on a grocery run, Hank humming along to Nina Simone on the radio, his appreciation for her music having raised Ororo's interest — nosiness getting the better of her, hoping she might unearth some salacious piece of information he had been keeping from the rest of them. Unfortunately, his answer had been altogether more wholesome, even a little sad. 

"I just like to be alone, I find. I work better without distraction — don't we all? And often, our house can be very distracting."

Ororo had nodded along with him, eyes on the dark road ahead of them, illuminated intermittently by the deep, artificial red of traffic lights and passing vehicles. It had been raining that evening, and Ororo had let his answer sit for a moment in the air, allowing the two of them to take in the sound of the water against the roof of the car. As Hank pulled onto the highway which would take them back to the mansion, she spoke up. 

"I heard your room is the quietest in the whole house, is that true?"

He nodded, his hand moving in the space between their bodies as he shifted gears.

"I soundproofed it years ago," he explained, a slight smile playing across his lips, "I have quite the record collection, and I find they sound better without Robert's voice drowning them out."

Ororo chuckled, intrigued by Hank's musical inclination.

"What do you listen to?"

"All sorts. Nina Simone," he said, nodding at the car radio, from which the late singer implored her lover in French to be with her always. "I have quite the classical collection, as you might expect. There are more contemporary specimens of course, although not as many. I have a Kate Bush original that I'm quite fond of."

"So no gangster rap, I imagine?" she replied, a teasing smile across her face. Hank's eyebrow had quirked at that, a grin stretching his lips out over his teeth. Ororo marvelled at the change in his demeanor, the sudden shift from his usual manner — proper to the point of being uptight, introverted to the extent that he seemed often to wish to be invisible. This was a different Hank altogether, easy and loose. He went on, oblivious to her surprise.

"I do actually have an old NWA release, very very rare."

Ororo's eyebrows practically hit the roof of the car. She turned in her seat to regard him, searching his face for any trace of a lie. 

"Which is it?"

His grin turned sheepish, his face reddening.

"It's actually a bootleg," he said, voice low as if someone might be listening. "It was a live album, it hadn't been released on vinyl, so I made one. I repurposed an old 3D printer and retooled it to be able to press vinyl records for me. It was an experiment, in many ways, although one which I am still enjoying the fruits of to this day."

"I can't believe you. We all think you're this nerdy little hermit up there in your room listening to Beethoven all night but you're really out here bootlegging NWA albums!"

Hank laughed, a booming sound that rattled around in the confines of the car, vibrating in Ororo's chest. It struck her that she had never to that point heard him laugh so heartily, so full of genuine humour, his voice free and loud and full of mirth. She laughed along with him, each of them left wiping tears from their eyes as they settled. She knocked their knees playfully, nudging against the rock wall of his shoulder.

"You'll have to let me come listen some time."

"Whenever you might like, my door is always open. To you, at least," he replied, eyes on the road once more.

* * *

Back on the beach, night had fallen.

There had been a grill — clanging metal unsteady in the sand as Scott loomed over it, fussing over the meat. Ororo wondered if it was some pantomime of masculinity for him, that through his grilling he might further assert himself as the alpha of the group, or some such nonsense. Jean had batted at her arm as the thought had crossed her mind, barely able to stifle her laughter. The two of them watched him, giggling amongst themselves. The food was good all the same. She had placed herself in charge of preparing it, Kurt assisting, unwilling to subject herself to chicken so white it might have been bleached, or beef reduced to grey leather on her plate. It had gone down well, with Piotr reaching for thirds, unsurprisingly.

As Scott hauled the grill back to the jet, parked just beyond the dunes, Jean had joined him, the two of them returning with a hefty supply of beer. It floated just behind them, held aloft by Jean, barely an exertion of her powers. They were passed around — Hank the only one abstaining, as per usual. 

There had been a fire pit made in their absence, dry wood gathered by Kyle as he zipped across the sand, piling it up within a ring of stones. Bobby had fumbled with matches for some time, the wood refusing to catch. Suddenly, there was a plume of flames, Bobby lurching backwards, on his back in the sand, his beer somehow still upright in his hand. His eyes shot to John, who watched him with a grin, barely holding back laughter.

"That wasn't funny!" he exclaimed, checking that he still had all of his eyebrows.

"No," John replied, "It was hilarious."

Blankets were unrolled from a beach bag, passed around as everyone coupled off around the now-crackling fire. Piotr draped the largest around his shoulders, Kyle sitting in his lap, his face pressed against his neck, sound asleep. John and Bobby had forgone the blanket, each of them immune to the cold in their own way, opting instead to sit on it, away from the clinging sand. Jean sat between Scott's legs, back to his chest, head beneath his chin, their hands joined across her stomach.

Ororo stood for a moment, searching for a spot in the circle where she could sit and not look like a total loser. She was interrupted by Hank's voice at her shoulder, his hand at the small of her back. She shivered involuntarily at his touch, turning to meet his eyes. He stood, the last blanket in his hand, gesturing with his head to the ground.

"Ororo, would you like to sit with me? There is only one blanket left, it seems."*

She opened her mouth to answer, shutting it again when the words never arrived. She nodded, and they moved on, taking their place by the fire. Hank was less awkward than Ororo might have expected, draping the blanket over both of their shoulders as they sat side by side. He leaned back, supporting his weight on his arms, one stretched out behind Ororo, almost an embrace. She sat straight, resisting the urge to lean back into him, and time passed around them gently. Conversations were quiet, laughter muffled, hands disappearing around backs, under shirts, across thighs. Ororo nursed her beer, her mind filling with a pleasant hum, taking in the rhythm of Hank breathing behind her.

He rose at one point to throw more wood onto the fire — Jean indisposed, having fallen asleep against Scott. He returned to Ororo's side, tugging the blanket around himself once more. In their shifting, he ended up closer to her, his stomach grazing the small of her back whenever he inhaled. She gave in then, shifting her weight to lean against him. She felt his breath catch, the sudden tense of his shoulder, and feared she had made a mistake. She was about to pull away when his arm circled her waist, shoulder supporting her head. She turned her face to his, catching his eye, and grinned. It was dark, but his face was red where it was illuminated by the flickering of the fire, his hand swiping nervously through his hair. She rested the length of her arm across his thigh, hand around his knee, and was still. 

He smelled like sunlight, salt still flaking off of his skin from the sea. Beneath that there was something else, something animal and sour, that perfumed his skin, and hers where it rested against him. It was good. He smelled alive, earthy, something that had grown out of the ground. Ororo was more familiar with the scent of ozone, with the thin-air chill of the upper atmosphere, the smell of rain-soaked skin drying in the summer sun. She swept spring around her wherever she went, sunshowers and new blossoms wafting off of her as she walked. Hank was something different, something cloying, that stuck in your clothes, in your hair, felt long after he was gone. Even the weight room in the mansion reeked of him long after he would leave. The windows would be thrown open, but he would persist, resistant to their dispersal. She admired that, in a way, his body's steadfast declaration of its presence. 

It reminded her of herself.

It took a lot for her not to audibly gasp when she felt his fingers toying with the hem of her t-shirt. 

It had been there for a while, a persistent tickling sensation just above her hip, that she had attributed to the gentle rustling of the blanket in the breeze. Then, it became more assertive, and she could feel fingernails, the rough, calloused, edges of Hank's fingertips across her body. He was talking to Piotr about something they were planning together — a concert of some description, a band she had never heard of, a German sounding name, or Russian — and so she remained silent, her surprise unvoiced. She was intrigued by his boldness, wanted to see it out to the end, to see where he would take it, how far. He seemed content, however, to leave things as they were, his fingers moving in gentle circles as he chatted away to Piotr. 

Ororo spread her hand wide across his knee, silently running her long fingers in circles of their own, just along the length of his inner thigh. She raised hairs with the ridge of her nail, smoothing them down again on the return. She was rewarded during a pause in his voice, a heaved sigh, his stomach pressed into her, his hand squeezing her side once, pressure enough to send a ticklish shiver down her spine, although he didn't pursue it. 

They continued their silent play for some time, even as the general conversation slowed, and exhaustion caught up to the majority of them. Bobby and John snored into one another, curled up on their sides across their blanket, Bobby's arm tight around his waist. Piotr had Kyle pressed to his front, chest to chest, Kyle's long legs curled over his hips, his breathing slow, Piotr's hand working wide circles across his back. Ororo was wide awake, her head thrumming with the light buzz of alcohol and the electricity that flickered between her and Hank's bodies beneath the scratchy fabric of the blanket. 

She didn't know how this would end, where it was going from one minute to the next, but her head swam in anticipation regardless.

Eventually, it was time to pack up, to rouse Bobby and John — blinking, bleary-eyed and confused, faces creased from being pressed into the contours of the blanket. Scott, ever chivalrous, straight out of a 1960s throwback film, carried Jean across the sand, a bag of empty bottles slung over his shoulder, clinking together as he stomped unevenly across the dunes. Kyle had awoken of his own accord, leaning heavily on Piotr, who had the majority of the group's belongings balanced on one titanic shoulder. He walked hand in hand with Kyle, their fingers laced together, his thumb stroking back and forth regularly across the back of Kyle's hand.

Ororo and Hank hung back, suddenly awkward, space rushing to fill the gaps between their bodies as they walked almost at arm's length. Hank's voice was soft in an attempt at privacy, eyeing warily the back of Bobby's head, lest he suddenly become interested in their conversation. Ororo wasn't worried. Bobby was far too concerned with murmuring in John's ear, some private conversation of their own that had left the two of them smiling broad and warm, lost in themselves. 

Hank took a deep breath, shoulders heaving.

"Ororo, I hope that wasn't...that  _ I  _ wasn't…"

She cut him off.

"Don't worry about it."

Hank nodded, and remained silent until they were in the jet. He was the designated driver that evening, everyone else spread haphazardly across the jet in various stages of sleep. Ororo was his co-pilot, which unfortunately left them with a two hour flight during which they had nothing but an oppressive silence to fill. For the first hour, there was nothing, just the hum of the engines and the endless roll of the clouds, illuminated by the jet's lights. Ororo spoke up, eventually.

"We can-." A pause, as she rethought her approach, another halting start, "If you want to…"

It was Hank's turn to cut her off, his voice uncharacteristically tight.

"I do. I don't really understand what's going on, but yes, I do."

Ororo swallowed, nodding.

"But you've…you're not…"

She sighed heavily, breathing out her frustration. She felt him tense beside her, saw his hand flex over the controls, his fingers tightening and releasing like a cat pawing at a cushion. 

"I'm not, no. I've...done it before, yes. I'm not quite the priest you all seem to believe I am."

There was humour in his tone, a grin playing at his mouth, but she could detect the bitterness in his breath, colouring his words.

"We don't…Nobody thinks that, I don't think.  _ I  _ don't think that, for sure."

He turned to her, blue eyes slicing her open, peering through the depths of her.

"What  _ do  _ you think?"

She blinked against the intensity of his gaze, dry throat clenching around itself in imitation of swallowing. She placed a hand over his, her long fingers reaching over his, and pressed tightly.

"I think you're a private person, and I don't understand what's going on behind those pretty eyes of yours."

Hank made to speak, head ducked to hide his blush, but she spoke over him.

"But I'd like to find out, if you'd let me."

He shut his mouth again, and was silent as he processed his next thought. He built up to it with a deep breath, the momentous heave of his chest as he steadied himself.

"I don't want to be an experiment, Ororo."

She stiffened at his words, Piotr's slumped shoulders and dejected expression flashing through her mind, alongside a parade of blurry faces of men before and after him, all the same. She brought her hands to her lap, twisting her fingers around one another, scratching at her palm.

"I'm sorry, I-"

She held up her hand to silence him, and he did so, tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth.

"I understand. I'm not...I'm not angry at you, for saying that. It's probably about time someone did."

"Ororo, we needn't...we don't have to do this. We can forget about it and just pretend it didn't happen."

"Is that what you want?"

"No," he replied, suddenly sure of himself.

"Tell me what you want, then."

Hank stared straight ahead at the sky, his hand drifting through his hair once more.

"I would like to go to bed, to be perfectly honest with you. I'm tired."

"Right."

"You could come with me? If you like. I know we haven't...before but…"

"We can do that."

He nodded, suddenly uneasy, and their conversation ended.

* * *

She could recall, vaguely, a girl from Hank's past. 

It had been years previous, before Jean and John, before the X-Men had a public face. She and Hank had been monitoring seismic activity at Yellowstone National Park, following intel regarding a potential effort by a sect of eco-terrorists to trigger an eruption which would have spelled doom for a large proportion of the Earth's population, animal and human alike. Far from a high-tension mission involving much action and beating up of minions and foiling of plans, it had been a quiet affair. She and Hank posed as meteorologists, studying the cloud patterns over the park, supposedly on the verge of some major breakthrough in weather sciences. The details hadn't been entirely important to the mission, although Hank had seemed to be able to talk about them with a startling degree of certainty.

And then there was the woman. Sophia, a research assistant on a separate team, monitoring acidity in the water, searching for discrepancies in the expected patterns. Again, Ororo hadn't been sure on the details, but what she had been sure of was Hank's increasing closeness with the woman. They had conversed a few times in the field, Hank passing off the X-Men's advanced technology as some new piece of equipment, not strictly a lie. He came back to their base — a joined pair of hotel rooms — animated and excited, rattling off their conversations until he was red in the face, embarrassed at his own feelings. It had been endearing, watching him unwind around this girl, the studious, uptight Hank uncoiling into someone so bright that he could have been a different person altogether. 

It had come time for Ororo and Hank to leave, their mission completed, the threat rooted out and on their way to a maximum security prison. They still had a few nights left in the rooms, and so they had treated it as a vacation, wandering the trails, taking in the majesty of nature, as it were.

At least, Ororo had. 

Hank had spent those final days with the girl, explaining to her that his time in the area would be over, and that they likely wouldn't see each other again. To the best of Ororo's knowledge, they had slept together, the night before the two were scheduled to fly out again. As they had breached the clouds over the Park, she had asked him how things had gone.

Quietly, his voice wavering against a complex series of feelings which Ororo was all-too familiar with, he had explained that he had been in love. 

* * *

They had dispersed as they arrived back to the mansion, filing off into their various rooms with mumbled goodbyes and half-snored grumbles. Ororo stood at her door for a long time, working up the courage to emerge out into the hall and sneak her way into Hank's room. The house was silent as she padded down the corridor, bare feet sticking slightly to the cool wood. She climbed the stairs quietly, heading for Hank's room opposite from Warren's, which sat, door shut, at the other end of the hall. It was in that moment of realization of her proximity to Warren and his fat mouth that she began to panic. What would happen in the morning, when Warren inevitably walked out of his room at the exact moment she emerged, weak-legged and messy-haired, from Hank's? She didn't have time to hurry back down the stairs however, as she found herself on Hank's doorstep. The door itself was wide open in invitation, Hank laid out across his bed. He was shirtless — not atypical for him around the house, especially not at this time of year — a hand flat across the dark hair of his chest. He raised his hand in greeting, palm splayed wide towards her, face unreadable. She moved inside, conscious of her awkwardness, and shut the door. 

As the latch clicked softly behind her, she felt her chest relax where it had become tightened by her nervous thoughts. She released a sigh, leaning back against the wood, toying with the hem of her shirt. Hank brought his hands to his stomach, fixing her with an expectant gaze. She supposed she should probably say something, or make a move, but nothing was coming to her mind.

"Would you like to sit?" he offered finally, gesturing to the other side of his bed. She couldn't help but laugh at herself — Storm of the X-Men, bringer of rains, wielder of lightning — sheepish and giggling in a man's bedroom. She took the initiative, laying herself at Hank's side, hand warm on his stomach. If he was surprised at her boldness, he didn't show it, rolling his eyes in a gesture so alien to his body that it took Ororo aback. She grinned up at him, circling his bellybutton with her nail, threatening to dig in, to draw out noises from him that could be used against him in the future. He took her hand in his own, knotting their fingers together, his arm falling across her shoulders, reeling her suddenly into him, their lips meeting. Her eyes widened in surprise, her fingers clutching his, before she relaxed into him, breathing a sigh through her nose. They pulled away, Hank's eyes searching hers.

"Was that...was that okay?"

He was nervous now, bravado dissipated in their shared air, floating up and out the window. Ororo swallowed, willing her pulse to calm so she could fish out a coherent thought from the pool of her mind.

"That was...really good. Christ. Do that again, please."

They smiled at one another, breaking out into laughter hastily stifled against their lips, bodies melting into one over the mattress. Ororo ran her hands across him, taking in his musculature, the softness of his flesh a contrast against the coiled power that flexed underneath when he eventually shifted beneath her to sit her in his lap. His hands sat firmly on her hips, grip tight, unmoving, unwilling to attempt to take possession of her in the way men so often sought to. Her fingers ran under the waistband of his shorts, nails grazing along his thigh. She huffed a laugh against his mouth.

"No underwear?"

His voice was breathless, confusion apparent on his face.

"Do  _ you  _ wear underwear to bed?"

Her laugh became earnest then, graduating from a breathy chuckle deep in her chest, her head falling back. Hank swept in, teeth bared against her skin, pressure enough to draw a gasp from her, light enough not to leave a trace. His face moved down her neck, kissing across her collarbone, down into the centre of her chest. She buried her face in his hair, breathing him in — the smell of keratin warmed by the sun, the salt of the ocean baked into his scalp.

Her breath hitched as his hands wound up her back, fingers meeting the clasp of her bra. He paused, looking up at her, his eyes easy. She could shake her head no and he would remove them, replace them on her hips, and they could continue as they were. She nodded once, and he nodded in reply, undoing the clasp without all the awkward fumbling she had become used to. Her t-shirt came away, pulled over her head, tossed aside. She laid him down flat, palms across his shoulders, and sat back on her heels. His arms sat splayed above him, his eyes on hers, his chest heaving.

"You're sure about this?"

"If you moved a little bit backwards from where you're sitting, you could feel how sure I am, Ororo."

Once more she found herself emboldened by his candor, a thrill running up her spine at this unfamiliar side of Hank. She removed her bra, flinging it over her shoulder in an attempt to be recklessly and effortlessly sexy and carefree. Her facade was broken when she looked over her shoulder to make sure it had landed somewhere simple to retrieve. Hank's hands remained where they were, granite grip on her thighs, his eyes on hers.

"Okay...I was expecting  _ some _ kind of reaction."

"I'm trying to be restrained."

"Right, but you can, you know,  _ touch them,  _ or something!" she replied, grabbing his hands and placing them over her. His hands were gentle despite the roughness of his skin, fingers fanning out and over her as he explored. She pulled at him, such that he was sitting up, her in his lap, his face level with her throat. Her arms wound around his neck, palm across the back of his head, and she smiled down at him.

"I wish every guy was as sweet as you."

"Who's saying I'm sweet?"

Ororo's breath rushed out of her at the gravel in Hank's voice, the sharp note of lust that echoed in his words. She felt the dizzying rush of blood pounding in her temples, the roar of the ocean in her ears. She grinned at him in disbelief.

"Who are you and what have you done with Hank?"

"I'm still the same man, Ororo," he said, hands trailing across her ribs to knit together at the small of her back, pressing her stomach to his chest, "I'm just trying to loosen up a little, isn't that what everyone keeps saying I need to do?"

His grin was wide, but Ororo felt a stab of guilt shoot through her.

"Do you think we talk about you like that when you're not around?"

Hank swallowed, grin faltering.

"I wouldn't know."

"Hank," she said, pulling him close, his face pressed against her breast, "baby…"

"So what do you say about me?" he asked, voice light, attempting to diffuse them once more into their earlier enthusiasm.

"Do you wanna know the truth?" she replied, her voice a vibration in his skull. He nodded against her, the hair of his beard scratching against her skin, an indescribably pleasurable sensation.

"Mostly we talk about how we wish you'd spend more time with us, in the common room, and stuff, because you're really fun and people enjoy your company. I'm not even lying, I wish I were. I wish I could have said something flippant or sexy so we could get back to what we were doing, but no, we really do love you, Hank."

He sighed against her, and she could have sworn that she felt tears begin to form in his eyes.

"I'm very lucky to have all of you."

Ororo kissed the crown of his head, holding him in silence for a long while. 

She broke it eventually, voice tentative, her grin audible.

"But, uh, can we get back to business here?" 

He laughed, a single huff against her, and flipped them over. The motion was quick, fluid, a minute exertion of Hank's strength. She yelped as she hit the mattress, his weight over her. Usually, she preferred to be on top, the ceaseless pressure of a man's body over her enough to trigger her claustrophobia and take her out of her enjoyment. But Hank was different. He held himself such that his weight pressed into himself, his bulk supported by his knees in the mattress, his wrists on either side of the bed. He bracketed her body with his own, not pressing down upon her but rather covering her, their bodies just touching where it mattered most. He dropped his forehead to hers, nosing at her temple.

"Is this alright, for you?"

She nodded, swallowing thickly.

"It's pretty fucking good so far, yeah."

He chuckled at the quake in her tone, kissing a line down her face, fingers of one hand tugging lightly at her underwear. He met her eyes, gaze expectant. She nodded again, butting their heads together lightly.

"Go right ahead."

He smiled, sitting back to remove them, kissing along her calf as he flung them over his shoulder to land atop the rest of her clothes. She sat up on her elbows, peering over his shoulder to see if he had made it, disappointed that he had, her underwear lying limp across her t-shirt, obscuring Whitney Houston's encouraging smile.

"Should I?" she asked, gesturing to his shorts.

He shrugged in response.

"I can do it. Unless you want to."

She waved him off, and he stood, suddenly self-conscious. His shorts bulged obscenely where he was hard, Ororo's eyes glued to his thumbs where they were hooked into his waistband.

"Must you stare?"

She laid her palm flat over her eyes, heard his huffed sigh of exasperation, her teeth bared in a grin at the absurdity of it all. She listened to the rustle of his clothes as he undressed, the slide of skin on skin as he stepped out of his shorts, kicking them away. Her eyes remained closed as he laid over her once more. She felt the heat of his body before the weight of it, radiating from him in waves, pulsing with his heartbeat. He pulled her wrist away from her eyes, gently, his hand guiding hers down the front of his body, fingers passing over the fur of his chest, his stomach, resting at the base of his navel. He held her steady there, her hand rising and falling with his breathing, his pulse thrumming under her fingertips.

"Once again, are you sure you want this?"

He held her eyes, and she nodded.

"I'm sure," she replied, a kiss to the bridge of his nose, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For asking."

He smiled, and leaned in to kiss her once more, his grip releasing on her wrist. She brought her hand between them both to grip him in her palm, her surprised intake of breath muffled by his mouth against hers. She pulled away, words melding against his lips as he attempted to continue.

"Hank...oh my fucking god. What the hell."

"I was under the impression that everyone knew."

" _ Soft, _ maybe! This is ridiculous! Why aren't you in porn? Why are you wasting your time with this superhero crap?"

"You're making me self-conscious now," he mumbled against her neck, tongue trailing a line from the skin beneath her ear, down to the hollow of her throat.

"Have you got, like, stuff?"

His head rose to meet hers, her stilted, embarrassed request enough to distract him from his apparent goal of running his mouth over whatever skin he could reach.

"Could you have been any less specific, Ororo?"

"Condoms, idiot! I hate saying it! Makes me feel like I’m in an abstinence PSA," she added, voice trailing off to a grumble.

Hank had never observed Ororo while she was so skittish, so flustered. She writhed beneath him, partly from wanting to escape into a hole in the ground, never to come out, and partly from arousal at the sensation of his fingers drawing lines downwards from her navel, the thick weight of his fingers enough to make her shake. He nodded once, leaned over to his drawers, reaching into the bottom. 

"Can I ask you, are they extra large?"

Her voice lilted with humour, his reply deadpan, a joke he had heard many times before, apparently.

"Yes, they are."

She peered over the edge of the bed and into the drawer, hoping to spy something scandalous. Rather, she spotted a blue bottle, rattling around of its own accord as Hank fumbled a condom out of the box.

"Can you use that stuff too," she asked, pointing at the bottle, "Just to be safe."

He tossed it wordlessly to her, and she suddenly became anxious that she might have teased him too much. She rested her fingers on his shoulder, drawing him back to her. His brows were knit in frustration, and so she spoke to him quietly.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tease you so much."

"I'm not angry, Ororo."

"So why do you look so broody, big guy?"

"Because this  _ idiot plastic _ won't open!" he exclaimed, voice perhaps a little too loud, gesturing to the condom packet in his hands, scrunching up where he attempted to split it with his too-large fingers. She placed her hands over his, taking the plastic into her own hands, opening it easily with the flick of a nail. His face was dark with a pout — another expression she had never seen on his face before — and eyed her embarrassedly. She passed it to him, and he nodded.

"Apologies. Thank you."

"You want me to put it on too?"

"I can do it," he said, rolling it over himself, a grunt of discomfort as it pulled at his skin.

They were quiet then, reality settling in around them, the realization that there was nowhere to go from here but to the end. Hank spoke up, his eyes on her stomach, his voice tight.

"Should I?"

"Uhh…" she replied, shifting herself down to bring her legs over his hips. It was awkward, the angle all wrong, her body uncomfortable. He noticed, could probably tell by the look on her face, and reached for a pillow. He folded it over on itself once, raising Ororo's lower body with one hand, slipping the pillow beneath, before replacing her once more. The movement was fluid, over before she could even voice an answer, another exertion of the power in his body that he seemed so often to rein in. 

"That was kinda hot."

"Hmm?" he replied, eyebrow raised.

"When you lifted me there."

"Right."

She tested the new angle with a twist of her hips. Hank was pressed up against her between her legs, his hands digging into the mattress on either side of her shoulders. She reached for him, palm on his cheek, and kissed his forehead.

"You can start. Just...go slow, okay?"

He nodded and she was overtaken by the sensation of being filled, her body narrowed to the space where they were joined. She breathed through the discomfort — slight, Hank was being gentle as he had promised — eventually releasing a sigh as he bottomed out in her. She patted his shoulder in an affectation of congratulations, grinning.   
“Hey, that wasn’t so bad, you can start moving if you want.”

“Those are my fingers, Ororo.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

She had the sudden thought, clear and sharp as a bolt of lightning, that it would be a very long night indeed.

* * *

After the assault on the mansion, the X-Men had found themselves taken in by Magneto. 

He had been strangely gracious in his hospitality — no cages, no chains, no damp dungeon cells in the basement cellars of his estate. His castle was well-hidden, somewhere in Europe — he had never divulged the country. They had their rooms, as well as larger dining halls repurposed as dorms for the students. It was makeshift, but he seemed committed to their comfort. It was odd, his sudden shift from the X-Men’s sworn enemy, into this benevolent old man, his face pulled down by some obscure sadness that seemed to prick at his very being. 

To say nothing of his relationship with Xavier, the prickling static which filled the air whenever they were present in the same room. And yet, they had shared sleeping quarters for the duration of their stay. No one questioned it, they knew better than to try. Magneto even took over from Hank as Xavier’s primary carer — the person responsible for his dressing, and the other various tasks which required use of one’s legs to perform, which Xavier was not capable of without assistance. It was a position Hank had filled for years, almost a decade, but which Magneto assured him — in a tone of voice dripping with condescension and not an insignificant amount of jealousy and possessiveness — that he had been doing for far longer. Xavier had seethed, barely contained rage bubbling just under the surface of his skin, but hadn’t made any attempt to protest.

Bobby had put it best, in the blunt, pinpoint accurate way that only he could.

“It’s just two old queens having a lover’s quarrel, let them tire one another out. We’ve got bigger problems than the Professor getting a little action.”

Hank had found himself at a loss with his newfound free time. He busied himself with the students, ensuring their lessons were still taking place, on time, and with the same rigour as if they were at home. He had confided in Ororo that it didn’t much matter to him whether or not they took any of the information in. 

“I would like them to feel as though nothing has changed, that they are still the same children as before all of this, that there is a life on the other side of this exile.”

Some months later came the airport in Germany, the X-Men’s official stand against the pro-Accords forces.

Hank had stayed at home, unable to commit to the reality of what they were doing, no matter the nobility of the cause. Ororo hadn’t thought less of him — no one had. Magneto had remained idle, at the request of Xavier, who understood that once diplomacy between Iron Man and his fellows broke down, Magneto would not hesitate to kill, violent retribution for what he understood — what they all understood — as an assault on mutantkind. 

It had been an exhausting experience. They had returned, successful by a mere technicality — yes, they had secured safe passage for the Captain and the Winter Soldier, but had done so at the expense of the freedom of three of their own. Scott, Jean and Bobby had been corralled by Iron Man, and were on their way to a black site, to be held indefinitely until their trials — or their executions. She, Kurt and Warren had returned on the jet, leaden by their guilt. The two had shuffled off, Warren limping on an injured ankle, Kurt supporting him, whispering to him in German that he couldn’t understand. 

Storm was alone. Again.

She had been approached by Magneto, who had spoken to her of his former life, divulged his and Xavier’s shared history. He had unburdened himself to her, releasing some vast weight from his shoulders, saddling her with it, his final question a leaden chain around her ankle.

“Do you think this will all be worth it, in the end? Do you think a better world is possible?”

He had left her to stare out over the ocean, to the endless roar of the waves, to the rumbling clouds that battered the inside of her skull.

She had wandered the halls of the castle for some time, in search of her room, her vision unfocused.

Arriving at an open door, she had glanced inside, a tableau arranged before her. Hank, sitting across a bed made for a child, overwhelming the frame with his own, reading out loud from a history book — some vast tome pulled down from Magneto’s shelves, probably a first-hand account of the fall of Byzantium, for all she knew. His voice carried to her, low in an effort to soothe, the steady rhythm of the words pulling her to him. She had padded over the threshold, passing by the various beds and cots in which laid some of their students, sound asleep, and laid herself at Hank’s side, her arm curling around his stomach, her face pressed to his neck. He had met her eyes in a brief moment, nodding at her, bringing his arm down around her, a hand loose around her waist. She had half-expected a kiss to her forehead, but he hadn’t gone that far with it.

She had slept next to him that night, the two of them drifting silently together.

* * *

“I can’t feel my feet.”

She could hear Hank laugh from within his ensuite, the vibration reaching her where she was splayed across his bed. 

They had gone twice, Ororo rounding on him as he had caught his breath after the first, sitting herself in his lap, letting him relax as she did all the work. He had watched her the whole time, eyes wide, jaw slack in awe of her, her body, the sounds she made. He had made her feel beautiful. She had finished, her fingers knotted in his hair, him following shortly behind, the two of them crumbling beneath the weight of their exertion, breathing heavily against one another. They had laid sidelong on top of the sheets as they caught their breath, Hank running the backs of two knuckles across her cheek. He held her eyes, blue on blue, silence between them, comfortable and easy. He had kissed her once — no fire, no passion, just the firm press of skin on skin, just a touch, just to feel it again — and had stood, loping on unsteady legs to the bathroom.

He returned, regarding her from the doorway, lit from behind. He flicked the light switch, his body silhouetted in the dark, a vast shadow moving towards her as he crawled once more onto the bed, the mattress groaning in protest against their shared weight. She was on her back, hands on her stomach, and he laid out beside her, propped up on his elbow, his other hand flat across both of hers. 

“You’ll stay tonight, won’t you?”

“It’s almost four, there’s not much night left anyway. Besides,” she added, stretching one of her legs into the air to relieve some of the tension in her muscles, “I’d probably need crutches to get down the stairs.”

He laughed, more of a rough exhalation through his nose, and brought himself closer, a leg thrown over her own. She recoiled instinctually from him, a tensing in her body, a grimace pulling across her features. His breath caught, hand lifting from hers, hovering half an inch from her skin, his own leg caught in the middle of its movement.

“Should I-... I can… if you don’t want to.”

She was about to dismiss it, to nod, to pull his arm across her stomach and grit her teeth until the itch in her chest dissipated and she could fall asleep. She had the words lined up and ready to go on the tip of her tongue, the words that would reassure him. Instead, she spilled her truth to him, unbidden, unprompted.

“I don’t like to be held. It makes me feel like an animal in a cage. I used to think it was my claustrophobia, that my body was just reacting to what felt like it as unwanted pressure. Jean thinks it’s something else. She says that I’m terrified of vulnerability, that I refuse to allow myself to be perceived as weak. She says that I reject people — men; you, and Piotr, and all those faceless, nameless men before you — because I’m afraid of being rejected in return. She says I close my heart off to people because I don’t want to rely on anyone but myself.”

She turned to him, his hand slipping from her, laying flat in the space between their bodies. He watched her in the dark, that much she could tell, the minute movement of his long eyelashes as he blinked.

“I hurt Piotr. All he wanted was to give himself to me, and I kept him at arm's length, drawing him in and pushing him away as if his feelings were mine to control. Kyle told me one day that Piotr was in love with me, that it was apparent to everyone except me, that he could see the hurt on his friend’s face, clear as day. I’m glad he has Kyle now. Someone who can love him the way I know I wasn’t able. You told me you don’t want to be an experiment, Hank. Well, I don’t want that either.”

“What do you want?”

His voice was even, measured, understanding.

“I want you to hold me. I’m trying to open myself up to people. Jean and I have been working on it. I have a lot of grief, Hank, a lot of rage in me. After the Accords, ever since we came back here, I’ve felt like a ticking bomb. Jean and I’s work has helped me a lot, but there are things she can’t do for me, things I have to work out in my own head. I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t know where this might end up. All I know is, I’m here, in this moment, and I want you.”

“Turn around.”

She opened her mouth to respond, to question him, but shut it. She leaned in once, her lips on his, counting fifteen seconds before pulling away. She turned over, eyes on the darkness, and waited. He shifted, springs grinding beneath him, pulling himself close. An arm worked its way to pillow her neck, bending at the elbow to reach around her front to her shoulder. She tensed in response, but breathed through it, feeling her chest release. Another arm snaked around her middle, palm wide and flat across her stomach, pressing her into him. She could feel his breath across the ridge of her ear, his leg thrown over hers.

“I don’t wish to pressure you, but I would really like it if you were here in the morning when I wake up. Could you promise me that?”

She nodded, a kiss to the crook of his elbow.

“I promise, Hank. Thanks, for everything. I didn’t mean to put all of this on you. I’ve just been really lonely lately.”

“You’re not the only one. I started it all, in any case. Fingers on your hips underneath a blanket on the beach, what is this, high school?”

His voice was liquid in her ear, a chuckle deep in his throat, his smile pressed to her shoulder. She shook her head, patting at his head where it rested behind her.

Sleep took her eventually, her body sinking into Hank’s, her mind floating somewhere high above the mansion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Ororo move closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done! Been chipping away at this for the last couple days, hope you enjoy.

Her body awoke before her mind, the urge to unfurl herself from where she was contorted, the desire to stretch her limbs, occupying the totality of her sleep-thick mind. She blinked awake into the morning, light piercing her eyelids where it slanted through open blinds, directly across from her. A shaft of sunlight lanced across the room, illuminating a square of the bed in front of her, the edge catching her face, setting her alight in its glow. She groaned against its intrusion, shutting her eyes, shifting herself onto her opposite side, burying her face once more into the body that surrounded her. Mind still foggy with sleep, she was aware only of the physical sensation of him, the soft-hard of his body where he enveloped her, practically every inch of her body beneath or surrounded by him. She was aware of his scent — that animal, sour-sweat smell that permeated his being, clung to his clothes and left every room he occupied reeking of the memory of him long after he had departed. He was naked, they both were, and he stirred as she moved, a sleepy whine issuing from his parted lips. She angled her head up to watch his face, looking out for signs that he might be close to waking, that they would have to begin the slow navigation of their new situation. Mercifully, he remained asleep, swallowing thickly against the dryness of his mouth, his face scratching against his pillow. 

Awake now, she took her time in taking him in. To the best of her knowledge, none of them had ever come this close to Hank. Perhaps Bobby — in those evenings he had spent curled up at his side, crying his lonely tears into his shoulder — perhaps he had seen him, in that way. Perhaps he had noticed the mole on his neck, a tiny spot of brown against the vast white expanse of his throat. Perhaps he had noticed the way the hair on his head and the hair on his chest curled in the same patterns — whorling waves caught just past the peak of their crest, cresting over on themselves infinitely as if painted in oils. She wondered if he had counted his eyelashes, longer than her own, thicker, which fluttered with a delicacy that most women would kill for. Men always had nicer eyelashes, she had thought, with a pang of jealousy. There was a hand across the side of her face, fingertips reaching up towards her hair. She could feel the callouses across the inside of his palm, could feel them catch against the smooth of the skin of her face whenever one of them moved. Her arms encircled — or attempted to — his shoulders, the curve of his spine separating her fingers, splayed out across the plane of his shoulder blades. There was hair on his back — there was hair all over his body — but she found herself endeared by it, trailing her fingernail through it absentmindedly.

His breathing was heavy, regular, his stomach pressing against her with every inhale, a rhythm enough to send her back to sleep if she so desired. Checking in with herself, she found that she was content to be awake, content to be held by Hank, content to let him come awake on his own terms. She was struck by her calm, by the silence of her mind in the wake of the previous night’s events. She was surprised at the lack of tension in her muscles, at how comfortable she was being held by him. Setting out to explore him, she brought a hand slowly down his back, her touch drawing out a shiver from him, his face remaining serene. She spread her fingers wide over the curve of his ass, the temptation to slap it raising a smirk on her lips. She moved on, however, swiping her palm over his thigh, drawing her nails over his stomach. It rippled under her touch, a ticklish reflex, her smirk widening into a grin. She splayed her digits, angling her wrist downwards, and prepared to continue.

His voice took her out of herself, her body tensing against him in surprise.

“You’re making it very difficult to enjoy my sleepy Sunday morning, Ororo.”

She tilted her head up to regard him, his eyes still closed. His arms had tightened minutely around her, his foot reaching back to scratch along the length of his opposite calf. She raised her lips to the underside of his chin, pressing and holding, pulling off with a soft sound. When she reopened her eyes, he was smiling, his eyes shut.

"Sorry, you want me to stop?"

He inhaled deeply, squeezing her tightly to him as he stretched his back. He unwound his arms from her, shifting flat, Ororo left at his side, one of his arms reaching out behind her. He regarded her finally, eyes bright in the morning sunshine, and grinned.

"Was your sleep okay? I know I can be a little… clingy,"

She nodded, sidling over to him, her chin on his shoulder, their noses close.

"Best sleep of my life, I'd say."

"You're flattering me."

"I am. Is it working?"

He peered down himself theatrically, eyes between his legs, where he was soft. He returned his gaze to her, and shrugged, grin wide. She shook her head in disbelief.

"I can't stand you. Men are all the same."

He leaned in to her, his sudden shift catching her off guard, and brought their mouths together briefly. She melted into him once more, her body on fire wherever their skin met, her hand trailing through the fur on his stomach. He chuckled ticklishly again, pulling away from her.

"Thank you, for staying," he said, voice suddenly serious, another kiss to the tip of her nose. She choked a giggle in her throat before it could escape and embarrass her, covering it up as a cough, and leaned their foreheads together.

"Thank you for being patient with me."

"Anytime."

She sighed, patting his cheek, and rolled over to stand. She stretched wide as she stood, rolling her hips, her lower back, her neck where she had grown stiff in the night. He watched her dress, reaching for last night's clothes, a frown just barely tugging his features down. She pulled her t-shirt over her head as she spoke, voice reassuring.

"Don't give me that face. I'm not running — not totally anyway. I just wanna shower in my own room, and be with my thoughts for a little bit, alright?"

"I understand, don't worry about it."

She faced him, hands on her hips, and fixed him with a stern glare.

"Hank."

He shrugged, palms to the ceiling.

"I told you, I understand. I'm not lying to you, Ororo, I understand what you're working through. I'm not going to attempt to pressure you into something you're not ready for, especially when I don't even know what I want myself."

She relaxed, rocking back on her heels where she had risen onto her toes in a flare of anger.

"Right, right. I guess I'm not used to people saying what they mean."

"One more kiss before you go?"

She rolled her eyes, laying over him on the bed, meeting his mouth once more. He grinned at her as she pulled away, a glint in his eye. He waved her off — a lazy shake of a broad palm before dropping it once again behind his head — as she slipped out into the hall. 

True to her prediction, the door opposite swung wide as she emerged, Warren stopping short as their eyes met, hers like an animal in headlights, his equally shocked. He groaned, turning his back to her, hands over his eyes.

"Go, go! I didn't see anything," he said, waving her along with a sweep of his arm. "If I turn around and you're gone, no one finds out."

She didn't need to be told twice.

She practically sprinted to her room, locking the door behind her, leaning against the wood as she caught her breath. On the desk her phone lit up, likely a text from Warren, and she ignored it. She undressed again, clothes into the hamper, and made her way to her shower. As her body relaxed under the hot water, she began to let her mind expand, to let the nervous animal, the tightly-wound coil of anxiety in the pit of her stomach, release. 

She was going to process this, and do so in a way which benefited her in the long term.

She would not hurt her friend.

She would not run.

"So, I heard you and Hank had sex."

Ororo's breath hitched, almost sending her careening off the treadmill. She turned her head to Jean, her brows knit in silent fury. Jean rolled her eyes right back at her, shaking her head.

"Relax, I didn't read your mind. I literally  _ heard _ you two doing it last night. His room is right above me and Scott's."

Ororo took a moment to visualise the house in her mind, the configuration of the rooms and corridors. Her shoulders relaxed, her head hanging low in disappointment as she realized that yes, Jean and Scott would have been right below her that night. 

"I really thought I would have gotten more than like eight hours to figure out how I was going to bring it up — if at all."

Jean barked a laugh, a difficult feat as each of them were in the middle of a set of sprints on the machines.

"You know as well as anyone else that there's no secrets in this house, Ororo. Not for very long, anyway."

"Still…"

"Bobby knows, too."

"Oh for fuck's sake!  _ How _ ?" she replied, her voice almost rising to a shout. Jean's grin was sympathetic, her hand rising to swipe her hair out of her face where it had been matted across her forehead by sweat.

"Hank was in here this morning, and Bobby walked in with Scott. Scott said that Hank turned to wave hello, or whatever, and Bobby just freezes, and his eyes get all narrowed. He stares Hank out of it for like ten seconds without saying anything, and then nods. He keeps quiet until Hank leaves, and then he says to Scott — 'Hank had sex last night'."

Ororo was incredulous.

"How the fuck could he know that?"

"I dunno, Bobby has like a sixth sense for this stuff. After Scott and I got together the first time, Scott told me he did the same thing the next morning. He just knows."

"I'm gonna be sick."

"That's probably from the running, c'mon," she replied, flicking off her treadmill, allowing it to deposit her back on the ground. Ororo joined her, the two of them breathing heavily as they moved to the floor to stretch. They sat opposite each other, soles of their shoes pressed together, their legs splayed wide. Ororo took her hands, leaning backwards, pulling Jean forwards. As they swapped positions, Ororo spoke again.

"Warren knows."

"Let me guess, he walked out of his room right as you left Hank's?"

Ororo nodded, her lips pursed.

"Naturally."

"So Kurt knows."

"I would imagine so. John too."

"Can we assume Piotr and Kyle, or do you think the boys will keep quiet?"

"I don't think it matters at this point. Everyone thinks I'm a maneater anyway, what difference does it make?"

Jean sat up straight, her hands still laced with Ororo's, and regarded her. Ororo wouldn't meet her eyes, and so Jean leaned closer.

"No one thinks that about you."

"I'm sorry, I just-"

"Uh-uh, no buts. Nobody thinks about you in that way, and you know it. This is you running again. You're making excuses for why you can't see Hank again, why you can't pursue this thread to whatever end it might lead you to. I can hear everyone's thoughts, Ororo, and I've never heard a bad word said against you, so don't give me that."

Ororo released her hands, falling backwards to lie across the padded floor, staring up at the shadows of the trees outside, twisting across the ceiling.

"I didn't realize we had a session scheduled today, I would have worn different shoes."

"Look," Jean said, standing, "Just let this go where it goes. Stop overthinking things. Did you have a good time?"

She leaned down to Ororo, her hair falling to bracket her face, hand outstretched to her. Ororo took it, heaving herself up to stand. They made their way out of the gym, the corridors of the mansion empty, the others all occupied with classes.

"I did. He's uhh… he's like,  _ really good _ in bed. Please don't tell anyone I said that, I don't want to embarrass him!"

"I'm sure he felt the same about you."

Ororo nudged her shoulder, grinning.

"Oh? You thinking about some girl on girl, huh? Do you like my bo- _ ody _ ?" she asked, an imitation of a southern accent colouring her words.

"Oh my god. Please don't. Scott would have an aneurysm."

"I wouldn't dream of it. He's probably too pure for all that nonsense anyway. I feel like he'd cry after."

Jean slapped lightly at her arm, a laugh rocking her body.

"Shut up!"

They stopped at Jean's door, their laughter subsiding. In her mind, she heard Jean's voice.

**_But, like,_ ** **how** **_good?_ **

Ororo shook her head, her eyes wide with implicit meaning.

**_Look, most guys with as much..._ ** **equipment** **_as him don't really know what they're doing with it. Let's just say that._ **

"Interesting," Jean replied, nodding once.

They parted ways, Ororo feeling considerably lighter than she would have expected. She passed John on the way to her room, their eyes meeting.

"Did he tell you?" she asked, drawing him away from whatever was on his phone to meet her eyes.

"Yes. Not that I couldn't have guessed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

John tilted his head, expression creased into a mocking grin.

"I saw where your hands were under that blanket last night. His too. Doesn't take a genius, Ororo."

She felt her face grow hot, running her tongue along her teeth.

"Right."

"None of my business, though. Having said that," he added, grin widening, "Don't be surprised if Bobby comes asking for anatomical measurements."

"He'll get what he always gets; nothing."

"Probably better that way. See you later."

He left her with a wave, her watching his back as he disappeared down the hall. She made her way into her room, reunited with her phone once more. She checked her messages, rolling her eyes at the screen as it unlocked.

_ Warren: Hi, Kurt knows, sorry, he was in the room when I saw you and asked what was wrong _

_ Bobby: did you and hank fuck???? _

_ Bobby: how big is it?????!? _

She didn't bother responding, leaving both of them on read, moving to replace her phone on the bedside table. As she did, it vibrated again. She turned it over, sighing in frustration, only to see a text from Hank. It was a picture. She opened the thread, laughing out loud at the image on the screen. He was holding her bra between his fingers as if it were radioactive, the straps dangling towards the floor.

_ Hank: You left this here. _

She typed a quick response to him, fingers whirling across the screen as she made her way to the shower.

_ Sorry!  _

_ I'll come get it at some point  _ 😉

He sent her a simple thumbs up in response, and they left it there.

* * *

_ Can I come up to your room? _

Her thumb hovered over the send button for some time, her mind going back and forth over whether or not she should put her money where her mouth was and admit vulnerability for once in her life. She had a splitting headache — well on its way to becoming a migraine — and the idea of Hank's bedroom with its soundproofed walls and his preternaturally soft mattress seemed the only viable source of relief for her aching mind. They hadn't seen much of one another in the week since their night together, although not by choice. Hank had been busy in the city, liaising with Tony Stark with regard to a series of robotics patents he had filed, which Stark was extremely interested in manufacturing. It had mostly gone over Ororo's head, being as she was not at all technically minded, unless it involved flying the jet. He had returned the day previous, circles under his eyes, a slump to his shoulders — exhausted but pleased with negotiations. Assuming all went ahead, the deal with Stark Industries would provide the X-Men with a much-needed cash injection. She had passed him in the hall that evening as he trudged to his room. He had thrown her a smile, weak but earnest, and she had returned it gladly, the most communication they had had.

She sent the text, watching the arrows appear next to it — one arrow, sent, two arrows, delivered. She placed her phone face down, rubbing at her temples, eyes on the floor. His response was quick, utilitarian in the way all of his electronic communication was —  _ Of course _ . She gathered herself, taking the stairs two at a time, still conscious of being seen entering his room, arriving at the door, which sat slightly ajar, soft piano music drifting slowly out and into the hall. She chuckled to herself at the atmosphere of it all, and entered. He looked up as she crossed the threshold, shutting the door behind her with a soft click, and smiled. He was shirtless again, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, a tablet resting on his raised knee, a stylus in hand.

"Evening. How are you?"

His tone was even — without a hint of embarrassment or awkwardness — vibrating with a deep hum that seemed to resonate in her bones, in the wood of the floor beneath her feet. She removed her shoes without answering him, climbing up the bed to lay at his side, her shoulder glancing against his ribs, their thighs touching, her arm over her eyes. He turned his head down to regard her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose where they threatened to fall, and awaited her response.

"I have a headache. I thought it might be quieter up here. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all. Would you like me to turn the music down, or off?"

She waved him off.

"No, no, it's fine — nice, even. Is that Chopin?"

"It is. Are you a fan?"

"My mom had a Chopin record she used to play all the time. It was pretty much the soundtrack to my life from age eight until I moved out."

He hummed in affirmation, letting their conversation drop. She felt herself sink into the bed, covers soft beneath her, the chime of the piano tinkling through her mind, soothing the trapped-nerve sting of her headache. Hank's breathing was regular, slow, the sound punctuated on occasion by the soft tapping on his screen. 

"What are you up to on that thing?"

"Stock trading. I'm trying to make us some money," he said, his grin floating on his words.

"I hear you're pretty good at that. Is that something you can be good at? I dunno anything about it."

He shrugged, rattling the bed frame as the bulk of him moved.

"I treat it like a puzzle. It's like doing a crossword."

"Except it makes us millions of dollars."

"Right."

They didn't speak for some time, Ororo sinking into herself, her mind emptying out, simply enjoying the presence of another person in her proximity — the warmth of him, the scent of him in the bedding, in the air, in her. She reached for him, a hand across his stomach, letting her fingers drape loose over his muscle. She heard his intake of breath, the sigh that followed, the tapping on his screen resuming once again. She felt sleep overtaking her, the dull ache of her head dissipating as her breathing grew deeper and deeper. She found Hank occupying her thoughts as she drifted, the sensation of his body nearby — the gravity of his form and the empty space that lay between them. She felt him beneath her palm, his warmth, the vague presence of his pulse, matching with her own. Part of her wanted him to reach for her in turn, to stroke his fingers across her brow, down her cheek, across her throat. She fell asleep quietly, dreamless, her body floating, unmoored in his orbit.

She awoke to the sensation of being rocked, a pressure light across her chest. She blinked, groaning, batting in the vague direction of the disturbance. The pressure abated, Hank's voice floating in to replace it, soft, coaxing her to attention.

"Ororo, your phone is ringing."

She inhaled, a frustrated sigh as she fished her phone from the pocket of her sweatpants, bringing it to her ear, fingertips massaging her eyes. 

"Hello?"

_ "Where are you?"  _ came Bobby's voice down the line, on his way to annoyance.

She sat up suddenly, the memory of where she was supposed to be hitting her at once. It was their turn to get groceries for the mansion. She had forgotten in the interim, her headache having pushed aside all else in her head. She sighed.

"Sorry. I had a really bad headache. I went to sleep for a bit. I'll come down now."

_ "S'alright, I'm downstairs by the jet, come down whenever you're ready." _

"Alright."

She hung up, flopping back onto the mattress, a pillow deflating sadly beneath her. Hank watched her, a smile half-formed on his face.

"I can go instead of you, if you'd like."

"It's fine," she replied, standing, somewhat unsteadily, making her way to her shoes.

"It's cold out, you should probably put something over that," he said, nodding his head to her ensemble — a pair of figure-hugging workout pants that she had spent a considerable amount of money on, and a cropped t-shirt. She looked down at herself, and then around the room, spying one of his sweatshirts draped over the back of a chair. He followed her eyes, and grimaced.

"Perhaps not that one, I wore it to the weight room this morning, it probably doesn't smell very pleasant."

In a move which surprised even herself in its boldness, Ororo reached for it, pulling it over her head. It did smell of him — reeked of him, even — but it wasn't unpleasant. She returned to him, his gaze heavy, eyes dark, almost predatory. She made her way over to him where he lay, placing a kiss on his cheek, patting his stomach.

"I'll see you later."

"Of course. Be sure to bring that back to me, won't you?"

She caught the implication of his words, the growl in his throat, the twitch of his fingers where he held them fast in his lap. He reached for her with his lips, meeting her throat, baring his teeth to glance against her flesh in a gesture of minor possessiveness that sent a thrill coursing through her body. 

"Later tonight?"

He shrugged.

"If you want. I have to get up early tomorrow, so don't feel obligated."

She appreciated his delicacy, the option of refusal left open between them. She pulled away from him, not without a certain degree of reluctancy, and made her way down to Bobby, who leaned against John's car, arms folded, eyes on his phone. He looked up as she pulled up, an apology written across her face, and stood straight. 

"Good to go? Your head okay?"

"I'm alright. Just had to lie down for a bit. Let's get this show on the road."

They bundled into the jet — the smaller of the two, with an interior space roughly equivalent to twice that of an average family sedan. Ororo took them up into the air, Bobby watching their cloaking systems, setting their course into the navigation systems. Soon, they were off, a thirty-minute flight to a sprawling supermarket on the outskirts of the city. There wasn't much talking in the interim, with Bobby fielding a call from Scott, going over last-minute changes to their training schedule with the team. Scott talked his ear off for most of the flight, Ororo catching his eye several times, him throwing his gaze to the ceiling, miming the universal sign for 'on and on and on' as Scott blathered in his ear. Eventually, they came down within walking distance of the parking lot, Bobby picking up a cart on the way. They walked side by side, the perfect image of a young couple. It was all part of the facade. Bobby and Ororo were one fake couple, Jean and John another. To the best of her knowledge, Piotr and Hank's cover story involved them running either a youth hostel, or a meal-prep service, depending on who was asking. 

She walked close to Bobby's side, their shoulders brushing occasionally. He would intentionally reach around her to grab items, the perfect picture of an overly-affectionate relationship. It was an act of diversion, with the general public more likely to look away from their saccharine displays of mock-affection, paradoxically drawing attention away from themselves. They passed time quickly, moving from aisle to aisle, packing their cart with their week's supplies — at least, the first run of the week's supplies. There would be at least three runs done over two days, the total amount enough for the whole house for a week. Ororo often mused that if they could somehow evict Piotr, they could cut their food budget in half. 

Her suggestions for doing that hadn't been met favourably. 

"Which bread is Warren allergic to now?" she asked, looking to Bobby, who was leaning lazily over the handles of the cart, rocking on his heels.

"Oh, the white stuff. He claims he's gluten intolerant, or something. I dunno. Just get it anyway, he probably won't even say anything." 

She reached for a loaf on the top shelf to compare it to the one in her hand, her sweatshirt pulling up to reveal her midriff. Across the aisle, a man's eyes turned to regard her, his gaze travelling down the exposed part of her back, rolling down her curves. Bobby caught his eye, his expression deadpan, a warning in his face. The man seemed to size him up, taking in Bobby's musculature, barely hidden under his t-shirt, and thought better of making a move, walking on without a word. 

All part of the pantomime.

As Ororo turned back around, she noticed Bobby staring, resting his chin on his palm, his eyes narrowed across her chest.

"Are you staring at my boobs?"

"No. Well, kinda." He paused, head tilted, "That's Hank's sweatshirt."

It wasn't a question. Ororo swallowed.

"No it's not."

"It stinks of him, I can smell it from here."

"Okay fine, it's his, what's your point?"

Bobby softened, nudging her with his shoulder. 

"Nothing. I'm just being nosy."

Something in his tone soothed her where she had rankled against him before. He didn't seem like he was prying, didn't appear to be on the verge of lecturing her about not hurting Hank's delicate feelings. She sighed, falling back in step with him as they checked out.

"I was in his room when you called earlier. I thought the soundproofing might help with the headache."

"Did it?" he asked, arms bulging as he hauled four loaded plastic shopping bags into his hands.

"A little too much, I was asleep when my phone went off."

They moved across the parking lot in silence, Bobby beginning to sweat at the weight of his load. They packed up their haul into the jet's compartment, safely out of view of any errant shoppers, and took off again, breaking the clouds on their way home.

"Are you two gonna date, or is it not really there yet?" he asked, tone light. She shrugged in response.

"Not sure yet. Neither of us really know what we're doing. I like him. He's really sweet, and we actually have a lot of stuff in common, which I didn't know."

"I've never seen you talk like this about someone before," he replied, face thoughtful. She felt a stab of guilt at that, the unavoidable truth of her previous relationship with Piotr sitting between them. Bobby caught the droop in her features and shrugged.

"I know who you're thinking about, and don't bother. You told him what you wanted — or, what you  _ didn't _ want — and he ignored you, and his stupid ass still fell too hard. That's not something you were ever gonna be in control of."

"Is everyone doing heart to hearts this week? Has Jean got you all on payroll?"

Bobby laughed, shrugging again with his palms thrown wide to the roof of the jet.

"Look, just have fun with it, Christ. If I got in my head about every dude I fucked I'd never get out of bed in the morning."

"Bobby, there isn't enough space in your head for every dude you fucked."

"True as that may be, it doesn't change the fact that Hank is a big boy and he's not going to throw himself off the roof if you decide you don't wanna be his girl."

"He'd probably do more damage to the ground if he did, in any case."

"I don't doubt it," Bobby replied, a pregnant pause between them as his grin spread. Ororo sighed internally.

"I know what you want to ask, just get it over with."

"How big is he?"

"It's huge, Bobby. It really is. You could use it to bust down a door."

He nodded, eyes wide, before settling his face once more into his signature smile. She braced herself for whatever was going to come next.

"So, like, do you have a thing for white guys or is it just a coincidence?"

"I'm going to beat your ass, I swear to God."

They made it back to the mansion just before eleven. The supermarket was less busy at night — a fact which had less to do with secrecy and more to do with Ororo's personal enjoyment of the process of wandering the aisles without the presence of children. She took herself to her room, kicking her shoes off, pulling off her socks, freeing her toes to sit against the cool wood floor. She stood for a moment in the centre of her bedroom, contemplating her next move. She sighed, and went to brush her teeth. She emerged twenty minutes later, her face washed, creams and serums and oils applied, ready for bed. She chewed lightly on her thumbnail as she regarded her bed, still unmade from the night before. She glanced at her phone, her empty lock screen mocking her. She huffed a sigh, and left, making her way up to Hank's room once again. His door was still ajar as she had left it, the soft glow from his bedside lamp peeking out, throwing a shaft of light out into the hall. She crept inside, closing the door behind her, and took him in. He was sprawled across his mattress, arms and legs wide, mouth open in a snore that shook the foundation of the house. She giggled at the sight of him, a sound stifled under her hand as she padded across the room. She removed his sweatshirt, her pants, and crept in beside him, fitting herself into the nook of his arm, her back against his side. He roused as she settled, a sharp inhale and a palm moving down across her stomach. He spoke to her ear, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Oh, you came back. I didn't know whether you would or not."

"Is this okay?"

"It's very nice indeed, yes."

"Bobby said I shouldn't overthink what we've got going on here."

"I would be inclined to agree with him."

"Right. So, that's that."

"I suppose it is. May I go back to sleep now?"

"Sorry, sorry. Sure," she replied, turning to kiss his cheek, his face pulling into a wide smile, his eyes still closed. "G’night, Hank."

He settled against her, nuzzling his cheek into her hair, and drifted off once again, sleep quickly overtaking him. Ororo laid for some time, enjoying the weight of his palm on her stomach, the heat of his body against hers. She stroked up and down his chest with a fingernail, running the fingers of her other hand to trace the veins along Hank's forearm, stretched across her middle. He stirred as she explored him, his hand moving to curl his fingers around her hip, pressing her tight to him.

She gave in, eventually — to comfort, to sleep, to him.

* * *

“I was going to head into the city today, would you like to join me?”

Hank’s voice broke her out of her thoughts — her mind focused on a cloudbank sixty miles away, the tendrils of her consciousness grasping at its structure, its infinite undulations. She had felt herself split in two, a dual consciousness. One half tethered to the Earth, curled up in a chair in the mansion, her eyes clouded over, gaze locked on the sky — the other floating in the centre of the cloud formation, skin humming with the electricity that arced from molecule to molecule of water, on the brink of lightning, on the brink of rain. In her chair her body had breathed, and in the sky the cloud had begun to heave, to swell, to darken. It was a test of her limits, of her ability to focus on a single meteorological entity — a cloud, a current of air, a single snowflake — and bend it to her will as she could any larger formation. In truth, she often had felt like a mere catalyst, the agent which called the storm to heel, allowing it to unleash itself, the directing arrow of the atmosphere’s fury. In her own way then, this meditative practice was an assertion of her power, that she could be more than a bringer of lightning and howling winds and pounding rain. For years, she had harboured fantasies of travelling to drought-stricken areas — in Africa, Asia, even in the United States themselves — and bringing rain. Not the torrential monsoons that were so effective on the battlefield, but rather those showers, those regular, steady periods of relief which could, given enough time, bring life back to those parts of the world, to the people who lived there.

She blinked, her mind returning to her body, her eyes unclouding. She stretched, arms over her head, rolling her neck where it had grown stiff, and turned to regard him. He was dressed plainly, a t-shirt that would fit her like a parachute and a pair of jeans which likely had more elastic in them than a rubber band factory, given how large his proportions were. It was a remarkably casual look, given that she was used to seeing him in sweaters and suits, the professorial archetype which had done so much good for the school’s PR when the news crews had come to visit after the events of the Accords. Distantly, she was aware that he was expecting an answer, so lost had she become in the patch of his chest hair which peeked out of the gap in his collar. She grinned, head tilted.

“Looking for someone to split your chores with, is it?”

He raised his empty palms to her, expression innocent.

“I’ve done all I needed to do today, actually. I didn’t feel like sitting around the house all day doing nothing, so I figured I may as well go for a drive. There’s a coffee house in the city I’ve been meaning to visit for some time now, I thought you might like to come.”

“I thought you didn’t drink coffee? Doesn’t it fuck with your meds?” she asked, rising from her chair, gesturing that they head out into the corridor.

“They do a very nice blend of decaffeinated fruit tea that I’ve been running low on, actually.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his earnestness, knocking into his shoulder in a manner she had meant as playful, but ended up being mostly embarrassing, as he barely even registered her weight against him. Surreptitiously rubbing her shoulder where it now ached, she nodded.

“I suppose I’m not doing a whole lot today, not ‘til later anyway.”

“What’s later?” he asked, as they turned down a hallway, emerging out into the mansion’s garage — the size of a small plane hangar — making their way to Hank’s car.

“We’re going into the city for drinks. Just the monthly gathering, you know how it is.”

“Well, not quite,” he said, a smile playing on his lips. She grimaced, the hairs on the back of her hand raising as a wave of embarrassment coursed through her system at her words. Hank had never joined them on their nights in the city, preferring to stay at the mansion, even when Scott — who had normally remained with him — began to join Jean with the rest of them. Again, it was to do with his medication, which would lead him to react ‘badly’ — his words, seemingly vague on purpose — if he were to drink alcohol. She placed her hand on his knee, squeezing once.

“You could come, if you like! You don’t have to drink, you can just come and have fun! Scott doesn’t drink too much when he’s there, you wouldn’t be the only one…”

“It’s fine, Ororo, I’m happy to stay at home. Nightclubs aren’t exactly my preferred place to be, in case that wasn’t totally obvious.”

He threw her a smile — wide and bright — which calmed the nauseous wave of guilt that undulated in her stomach. She left her hand where it was, the heat of her palm warming his skin. He made no attempts to remove it, brushing against it gently with his thumb whenever he moved to shift gears.

It was hot — August asserting itself as if in no hurry to declare the end of summer any time soon — and so they didn’t linger in the heat of the coffee house. Ororo got an iced coffee to match Hank’s iced tea — at which she giggled, unable to control herself at the sight of the bright pink liquid, a stark contrast to Hank’s outward appearance. He paid, adding on a twenty-pound bag of his tea, which he carried, one-handed, as they made their way to a local park to sit. They took their seats on the same side of a wooden picnic bench, crammed together by virtue of the sheer size of Hank’s body, which overwhelmed the ageing wood of the table, creaking beneath him as he struggled to fit his legs under, eventually settling with his knees splayed wide, one off to the side of the bench, unable to fit. Ororo had watched him amusedly as he had fidgeted, nudging him with her shoulder as he settled.

“You good?”

“A little out of breath, but I’ll live.”

They sat facing a small lake that occupied the centre of the park, watching several duos attempt to navigate around one another in tiny pedal boats shaped like swans. She half-entertained the notion of attempting to convince him to join her in one, just to see him try to fit, but thought better of it. As if reading her mind, he shook his head.

“Don’t even think about it. I think I would sink one of those contraptions.”

“Any excuse to get you wet.”

To his credit, he didn’t choke on his drink as she had intended. Instead, he rolled his eyes, shaking his head at her crude insinuations.

“You need only ask, you know that.”

She suppressed a shiver at the sound of his words, her whole body lit up as if she had jammed her finger in a light socket. In a movement which surprised her with its tenderness, she leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder as the two of them watched the warm sunlight of the late afternoon throw itself over the surface of the lake. His hand found hers where it rested against the chipped paint of the bench, and he took it, lacing their fingers together, the breadth of his palm overwhelming hers, her long fingers even longer in comparison to his. The air was light, carrying the aroma of cooking meat from a barbeque elsewhere in the park, suffused with the lighter scent of chlorophyll — the ever-present smell of summer. Their eyes met, Hank bringing their mouths together in a firm kiss, his lips just barely still cool from his last mouthful of tea. She held the kiss, opening her mouth to him, her other hand rising to play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. He tasted like sugar, like the back-of-the-throat bitter earthiness of tea leaves, like ice. His hand moved to the small of her back, holding her to him, an insistent pressure that implored her to continue, not to pull away. Eventually, she did, however, breathing heavily across his lips, her eyes on his. He whispered to her, voice lowered in shame of his selfishness.

“I didn’t want to ask you, because it felt inappropriate, when you’ve been looking forward to it for some time, but would you like to spend the night with me, instead? We could stay in… we could watch a film, or something...”

He trailed off, swallowing hard, pulling away from her as he reached for his drink. She blinked at him, her consciousness returning, reaching for her own empty cup, just to hold something. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, intent on staring out at the water, the shifting light reflected in his pupils, his face red with embarrassment. 

“Is that something you’d like?”

“Forget about it,” he said, jaw tense, “It was silly of me. Enjoy your night, you deserve to get out of the mansion whenever you can.”

“I asked you if it was something you’d like, Hank.”

He swallowed hard, sucking air noisily through his straw.

“Yes.”

“Then that works for me. Lord knows I don’t need another hangover, not after last time.”

She chuckled as she trailed off, attempting to alleviate the now-oppressive atmosphere, the heat prickling against her skin, drawing beads of sweat to run down the back of his neck. When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“Why?”

She sighed, leaning into him once more, resting her upper body across his back where he had slumped over the table, chin resting on his hands.

“Because I like you.”

He turned his head to look at her, the crease in his brow relaxing at the sensation of her weight against him.

"Come on, it's about time we got going."

She shook her head.

"Take me down to the lake, I wanna put my feet in the water."

He shook her off with a gentle shrug of his shoulders, moving to extricate himself from the bench. Once he was free, bag of tea in his arm like a pampered dog, he held his hand out for her. She took it, and they moved off, fingers entwined, loping slowly over the crest of a grassy hill that sloped gently down towards the water. He held her shoes as she sat at the edge of the water, dangling her feet within the sparse weeds, breaking the serene surface, their reflections swimming in the ripples. They sat together on the grass as her feet dried off, trails of water dripping down from her toes cut short as the droplets evaporated before they reached the edge of her skin. She sat between his legs, her elbows propped up on his knees, his bag of tea in her lap. She was struck by the intimacy of it, his body surrounding hers, their breathing more or less in sync.

"Do you want to hear something really sad?"

He grunted behind her, a wordless affirmation.

"This is the first date I've ever been on." She paused, taking a deep breath, her shoulders brushing against his chest, the movement nudging the back of her neck towards his lips, "I'm twenty-seven, and it's taken me this long to let myself have a moment like this with someone else."

Her eyes were on the grass between her toes, the green almost unnaturally vibrant against her skin tone. She didn't know what reaction she expected, and so when Hank whispered in her ear, his voice thick with earnest need, she felt the pool of water in her stomach swell, sloshing around to splash against her heart.

"Has it been worth the wait, so far?"

"You know what? It has."

"That makes me very happy to hear."

She stood abruptly, tugging her shoes back on, and gestured towards the park's exit.

"C'mon, we better get a move on. I've got an appointment to blow off."

She caught the flash of guilt across his features as he rose, watched him swallow it, and smile, their hands joined once more. She kept her hand on his thigh for the duration of their drive home, her hair whipping in the wind through the open windows. It felt natural to her, the impulse to put her hands on him, to claim whatever small part of his body she could reach as her own. It was an unfamiliar impulse, to say the least, but one she welcomed. She had felt it before, with Piotr, in those moments when his incorrigible infatuation with her would breach her defenses, sink to the heart of her and force her to contemplate what a life at his side might look like. In every case she had recoiled from it, her heart closing off from him, growing ever-used to the cresting of dejection across his features. She thought about Kyle, how he had pined after Piotr for years, how Piotr had pushed him away for fear of hurting him. They were all children, practically, playing at relationships, unable or unwilling to get to the root of their issues, to uncover their secret insecurities which inevitably poisoned the well of their love lives. Piotr had given in to his feelings for Kyle eventually, once he had stopped swallowing them, stopped pretending they were merely friends, closer than most. And look at them now, inseparable, in love, effectively joined at the hip. She swiped at a tear where it had brimmed over her eye, overcome by the flood of unexpected emotion. Hank's head turned to her, eyes shooting between her and the road, his hand on top of hers.

"Ororo… talk to me."

"It's okay, it's okay, I promise," she said, squeezing his knee, "I'm just dealing with a lot of emotions that I'm not used to."

She laughed, a half-choked sound around a sob in her throat.

"I can pull over, if you need?"

"No, no! I'm fine. I'm just being a baby. I'm happy, I promise — these are happy tears."

Hank's brow furrowed in concern, but he let the matter drop, squeezing the back of her neck once. She watched him as he drove, face lit up in the now-setting sun, casting shadows across the planes of his face. He didn't wear a beard, but he was so hirsute to the point that, if he shaved in the morning, he would have a thick darkness of stubble across his chin and cheeks by late afternoon. It was indescribably sexy to Ororo, and she let him know as such with a finger circling dangerously close to his crotch. 

"I'm driving."

"Well drive faster then."

They arrived home — Hank having driven at a disappointingly appropriate speed — and separated, moving once more into their private spaces, decompressing from the tension that had mounted between them over their few hours together. Sitting on her bed to pull her shoes off, her phone buzzed with a text from Jean.

_ I'm coming in _

Seconds later, there was a knock on her door, Jean peeking around the corner. She stepped inside, her face excited, clearly looking forward to their night ahead. Ororo sighed, not having realized that she was going to have to burst Jean's bubble quite so soon after arriving home.

**_I'm not going tonight._ **

Jean frowned — equally from the content of Ororo's statement, but also how she chose to articulate it, having it echo in her mind instead of saying it out loud, her implicit plea for privacy.

**_Why not?_ **

**_Hank asked me if I wanted to chill with him tonight, I figured I might as well say yes._ **

Jean's eyebrows raised.

**_Was that his exact wording? He asked you to 'chill'?_ **

Ororo rolled her eyes.

**_Okay, okay, so you're not coming. That's alright, I'll tell the girls you got food poisoning or something. I'll try and make it Warren's fault._ **

**_Thank you._ **

**_So,_ ** Jean asked, leaning heavily against the door, arms folded across her chest,  **_When he says chill, does that mean what it usually means?_ **

Ororo groaned, the first noise either of them had made out loud for some time, slumping back onto her bed, her hands over her eyes.

**_I don't know! Probably, I guess! We are definitely watching a movie at least, because he was giving me options on the ride home from the park._ **

**_Is that where you were?_ **

**_It was a date._ **

Jean's eyes grew wide. Ororo waved her off.

**_I know, I know. I even told him it was my first date ever._ **

**_What'd he say?_ **

**_He asked me if it was worth the wait._ **

**_What'd you say?_ **

**_Yes._ **

Jean couldn't help but squeal in delight, rushing over to lay next to Ororo, pulling her tightly into a hug.

**_I'm so happy for you._ **

**_Stop, stop, nothing is concrete yet. We're just feeling it out._ **

**_Of course, of course. You're not under pressure. Just have fun with it. Let yourself be happy._ **

**_Now where did I hear that one before…?_ **

They laughed together, Jean holding her close, their emotions blurring together under the influence of her telepathy. She left her room with a smile thrown over her shoulder, leaving Ororo with her thoughts — her own thoughts — once again. Time passed, the evening stretching into the night as the sun dipped ever lower beyond the pines on the edges of the lawn. Jean left, Bobby, John and Kurt in tow, and Ororo remained. She moved to the common room, where Warren was sat, resting his twisted ankle on a pillow balanced on the edge of one of the coffee tables. He looked up as she entered, arms folded gently over the cushion he clutched to his stomach.

"Evening. Heard you blew off the girls to get some action."

"I wouldn't put it exactly like that but yeah, me and Hank are gonna watch a movie, I think."

"That's nice," he replied, seeming as though he actually meant it.

"Where's your man? He's not usually very far away from you unless he has to be."

"I told him to go tonight. He hasn't been out in weeks. Sometimes I think he stays in because he doesn't want me to feel left behind."

"He's very sweet."

"He is completely in love with me, it's twisted."

Ororo made to reply, cut short by a buzz in the back pocket of her pants. She fished her phone out, Warren giggling on the couch. She shot him a look.

"It's a booty call, literally," he explained, smile gleeful. She stared at him for a long while, her body itching to hit him, before reading the text.

_ Feel free to come upstairs whenever you want. _

"You're lucky I've got somewhere to be right now," she said, turning back out into the hall, making her way up the stairs. Hank was waiting for her in their usual way, door open, propped up against his headboard. He wore the same t-shirt from earlier that afternoon, lower half clad just in his underwear — some nondescript black material that reached his mid-thigh, probably workout gear — his jeans discarded to his laundry pile. Ororo raised an eyebrow as she took him in.

"Didn't realise you were cutting to the chase so quick, Hank," she said, nodding wryly at his ensemble. He reddened, crossing his thighs over one another as if to hide himself, a move which only served to push everything forwards.

"It's warm…"

"Would it make you less self-conscious if I took off my pants too?"

"I think that might make it worse," he replied, gesturing for her to lay beside him. She brought herself down, her hands placed very carefully by her sides, their shoulders just brushing, the air suddenly thick between them with the afternoon's closeness. He had his laptop propped up on a stack of books at one side of the bed, a wireless mouse in his hand. Together, they settled into the film he had chosen — some Oscar bait nonsense that Ororo hadn't thought much of when she had seen the previews. Yet, sitting next to Hank in the near dark, static raising hairs on both of their arms, she found herself engrossed, enraptured by the characters and their lives. Hank's arm moved around her shoulders, without embarrassment — a simple shift, his body scooting ever closer to hers. He didn't push from there, seemingly content just to have made their contact explicit. She leaned her weight against him, huffing a sigh as she raised a hand to lace within his own. He kissed her once on the back of her head as their fingers met, humming her name deep in his chest, an animal purr, almost inaudible.

An hour into the film, Hank broke their silence.

"Are you enjoying this? If it's boring you just let me know, I've got plenty more on my list."

"It's perfect."

She wondered if he could hear the smile on her face, if the excitement he lit in her heart could be felt beneath her skin of her stomach where his hand now rested, stroking glacier-slow circles.

They passed the rest of the film in silence, Ororo at one point turning to face Hank, blotting out the screen as she held him to her in a long kiss. She had pulled away, turning back to the screen once more, the moment passed without comment. As she blinked back to reality as the credits rolled, Hank rose, making his way over to the computer, fiddling with it before shutting it down. Ororo regarded him, head tilted.

"You done already? You didn't wanna watch another? It's only like ten thirty."

He answered her by pulling his shirt off, leaving him bare chested in his underwear, his back to her. She couldn't help the gasp that escaped her as his body revealed itself in the weak light of the moon, streaming in through the gaps in the trees — a half-formed sound, excited, slightly anxious. Her brow furrowed, the electric current of her arousal stymied by her concern at his sudden shift in demeanour. He turned to face her, hands on his hips, face contorted as if in the process of waging some inner ear with himself. 

"Do you want to have sex tonight?"

His eyes scrunched up tight as he spoke, his body cringing at his words. 

"Yes, but, only if you explain to me why you look like you're in pain first."

He exhaled roughly, crawling to her side once more, laying his head just above her breast, the weight of him warm against her. He chewed on his lip, working out his reply in real-time.

"I don't want you to think I only want sex."

"Hank…"

He cut her off. Evidently it was his turn to spill his guts to her, perhaps his way of showing solidarity for her vulnerability.

"I think about you often, in that way, more than I ever have anyone else in my life. I don't really find myself…  _ lusting _ after women, in the way that men seem to so often. But, with you, I don't know… whenever you're around me, whenever our bodies touch, it feels different. It feels good. It makes me want to tear my clothes off and give myself to you."

She swallowed, hard, and allowed him to continue.

"The medication I take regulates my mutation. When my powers emerged, it became evident that there was a physical component — my body became like that of an animal; covered in hair, my nails long and sharp, my strength increased. For fear of becoming an outcast from society, I devised a compound that would suppress the more egregious manifestations of my genetics, which leaves me as the man you see before you. I have dreams, Ororo — nightmares — that I will become, as you all have affectionately called me, a Beast. I am frightened at the prospect of losing my mind, of becoming a slave to animal urges. You might understand then that these feelings I have towards you ring in my head as warning bells, heralding my descent to savagery. I do not want that."

His voice trailed quiet as he finished, his eyes wet against her skin. She laid in silence for a moment, the weight of his words pulling her into herself. Her heart broke for him, her Hank — her brother, her friend, her something-else-but-not-yet — torn asunder beneath a truth long buried beneath his flesh. She brought a hand to the side of his face, a low whimper — a sound so foreign to him that it could have been funny in another time — fleeing his throat at the contact.

"Does anyone else know about your mutation?"

"Xavier."

"Just him?"

"And you, now."

"This doesn't change anything between us, I need you to know that immediately."

He didn't reply to her, too busy holding back tears. He nodded.

"For what it's worth, I think what you're experiencing with regard to sex is separate from your mutation."

"You do?"

"There are words for what you described to me as how you feel, how you navigate sex and relationships, how your body responds in turn."

"Perhaps you're right."

"You're not a freak, Hank. No more than the rest of us."

"Thank you. You are a joy in my life and I spend what might perhaps be an inordinate amount of time thinking of you."

"Thank you for trusting me with your secret. No one will hear your truth from me unless you say so, do you understand?"

"Of course."

She brought his face to hers, cradling his cheeks in her palms, her mouth warm against him. He kissed her back, tiny sounds fleeing from the corners of his lips, pushing out around his tongue as it met hers. 

They slept together that night, their bodies twined together, a new closeness in their heaved breaths, a new desperation in her hands on his back, her nails in his skin, his fingers on her hips. He whispered her name into her ear as he moved, as if it were a mantra, a spell which would hold her to him indefinitely. 

As they laid side by side afterwards, heads close, hands joined, Hank spoke to her.

"Ororo… I know it might be too soon, but would you be mine? I'm not asking you for marriage, or anything. Just that we can perhaps move on from 'trying things out'?"

She held his gaze for a long time, his eyes furtive, hers sparkling and alive with excitement.

"Yeah… I think I can deal with that. Anything that keeps me close to you."

"You'll sleep here tonight, right?"

"You'd need a forklift to get rid of me at this point. My legs feel like they're made of lead."

He chuckled, reddening.

"Apologies if I was a little rough. Such is the way when we become emotional, no?"

"You better believe it."

"Shall we sleep?"

"Way ahead of you," she replied, turning her back to him, allowing herself to be enveloped once more by his body.

She sank into him, into the mattress, into herself, sleep falling heavily over them. In the depths of her dreams, Ororo called to Hank's heart, which beat in tune with her own, a serenity she had long craved, finally fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit iffy on the ending here, not exactly what I wanted but I didn't want this going too far over 20k.
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> Also, in case it isn't clear (because it's something I'm not overly familiar with) Hank is demisexual, although he himself does not know that.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that wasn't awful lol


End file.
